Sono il Mafia
by J.A.K
Summary: Clark is born a Luthor but the surprise doesn’t end there. Fighting desperately for a forbidden love, he must also fight against who he is.
1. Prologue

**Author**: J.A.K.  
  


**Rating**: R- for real life feelings and real life situations that aren't always PG-13  
  


**Summary**: Clark is born a Luthor; but the surprise doesn't end there. It also turns out that his father is _the_ most notorious mobster in the nation. Fighting desperately for a forbidden love, he must also fight against who he is; as he _is the son of a godfather.  
  
****_

**Disclaimers**: I don't intend to make a profit off of this story; I only intend to entertain those of like mind.  
  


**Author's Notes**: This story _does_ have a ship, but I can't say what it is until the next chapter. If some of you only read stories that focus on your favorite character(s), I ask that you read the prologue to the end so you can make sure you know who exactly I'm writing about. This is an AU Smallville fiction, and though I don't see why anyone should have a problem with it, I just have to be safe and say: YOU ARE WARNED! Enjoy!  
  


^**PROLOGUE^  
  
**

  
The first rule ever realized by all members whom are directly linked to the Luthor name, was, is, and always will be 'keeping the business of the business in the family'.  
  


  
I know the first question most might have after reading that admission would be, what exactly _was_ "the business"; and to that, I had many different explanations but only one true answer.  
  


  
The business in itself could be spoken of in varying ways and conveyed to the masses by any number of names, but the simplest term of identity I continually thought of, was the one that I was positive most people knew.  
  


  
The mob (the word mob actually being an extremely overused euphemism) was referred to by most of the law as organized crime; and in organized crime, there unfortunately always was a government appointed faction that tried to undermine and bring down the association of said sought after blood relations; but none of the many assemblies of the law that were out there has _ever succeeded with this particular group, to date.  
  
  
_

Of course there were two crucial reasons for that.  
  


  
Number one was that, "**the head**" played the game intelligently, and hadn't alerted any major 'cell busters' of his illegal presence in the field. Number two was, no matter how the CIA, the DEA, or the FBI might ever try to disband the enigma that is our family, they could never succeed; because no one can solve a puzzle they don't understand. And no one can understand the mob unless they're a part of it.  
  


  
The mob in its own right wasn't merely a summation of the nefarious activities that were carried out by various parties of consenting adults. The mob was a lifestyle; a way of being, a way of acting, and a way of thinking. Once someone became a part of the mob, they talked, behaved, and processed things differently from everyone else who was on the outside of our world.  
  
  


_Yes_, maybe it sounded too deep for the more _transparent of my lot, including those folks hearing all of this for the first time, but I had been taught these basic principles from the initial moment I could learn things on a developmental basis.  
  
_

  
Admittedly, my current description of the mob made it sound like an exclusive club that few were given access to, while many more wanted to join; but in fact if I had had a choice of which life style I could pick, this definitely would not be it.  
  


  
It was a lonely existence for a seventeen year old boy whose father ran one of the most notorious criminal organizations in the country.  
  
  


It was even lonelier when all of my peers seemed to know just that he did.  
  


  
On a side though, my father was a brilliant man with an excellent cover; and unlike many, who had thought themselves above the law, my father displayed no signs of believing in such a philosophy. He wasn't exactly what one would call a humble man, but he doesn't practice what he had once called the many reasons why arrogance equaled death- an attitude which he believed brought great men, even the distinguished Russian leader, Vyechaslev Sarafin, face to face with the iron clad doors of prison.  
  


  
M_y_ father was far too clever for that, and made sure that he had all bases wrapped up safely and conveniently underneath every one of his manipulative fingers. In so doing, he managed to make himself the very image of propriety, securing his rule with the brilliantly assembled company of Luthor corporations: a legal and lucrative franchise that made and explained away the millions of dollars that passed daily through the fingers of almost every member of the immediate family. It was because of this, I was certain that in the future, if not now, my father would be referred to as **de facto,** which meant boss of all bosses.  
  


  
Maybe someday I would be able to force my lips to imitate the shape of a smile, but for now I wanted nothing more but to do an internal heave at the thoughts that were running through the forefront of my mind.  
  


  
Because _I_ was the descendant of an Irish-Italian immigrant, whose son became the leader of an organization. An organization that later built an empire; and an empire that crowned a man.  
  


  
And as fate would have it, I was second in line to rule my father's kingdom and first in line to make sure he would never reign.  
  
  


Good ol' reliable fate would also maliciously have it that I would be born a Luthor...  
  
  


…and every single day I was sure that fate had gotten it wrong.

**An**** part 2**: Reviews are muchly appreciated and _greatly_ adored!


	2. Divertimento e Rivelazioni

**Author**: J.A.K  
  
**Rating**: R- for real life feelings and real life situations that aren't always PG-13  
  
**Summary**: **Summary: Clark is born a Luthor; but the surprise doesn't end there. It also turns out that his father is _the_ most notorious mobster in the nation. Fighting desperately for a forbidden love, he must also fight against who he is; as he _is the son of a godfather.  
  
**Disclaimers**: I don't intend to make a profit off of this story; I only intend to entertain those of like mind.  
  
**Author's Note**: I didn't want to say in my prologue what ship this story was going to be. But I'll tell you now that it's a Clark/Chloe ship (what else could it really be) and that is __mainly b/c I think it's most logical that Clark and Chloe end up together. It's a C&C__ fic _partly_ b/c I think Lana should be with no one else except Lex. _**

Enough of my ramblings...on with the story. Enjoy!  
  
  


**^Chapter One^**  
  
  


**Clark**

I felt frustrated by the stubbornness of a monotony that always came and just as stubbornly refused to leave.  
  


  
Wake up, get dressed, go to school, and come home.  
  


  
It was that said frustration that convinced me that it was going to be one of those days. A day where I was positive that I had to do something- _anything- to remind himself that I was indeed a human being walking among the living.  
  
_

  
A tight grin abruptly swept over the dry surface of my mouth.  
  


  
I knew just the thing that would make my adrenaline execute a swift sprint in the half mile dash to my heart. The English office, I decided, was in need for a modest dose of remodeling.  
  


  
It wasn't the first time I'd done it so I wasn't worried about getting kicked out of my current station by Saint Francis' division of educational management. The only thing I worried about was the question I was sure to be bombarded with- _repeatedly_- by varying and random people.  
  


  
_'Why_ would he act out in such a way?' They'd say.  
  


  
Well, I wasn't going to utter it…I wasn't even going to _think it out loud- because it sounded too clichéd even by my own standards.   
  
_

  
To say my antics were done solely to add a little color to my day just so I could accidentally on purpose get my fathers' attention was a bit much; but really what other explanation did I have. I was bored; and although admittedly it sounded like a really rich kid thing to say, it was simply the truth.  
  


  
As for how my father got involved with my antics; well…it was simple.  
  


  
The man didn't give a rat's ass or more than one sentence recognition to academic success. Getting **A+** in all of my classes (except one where I got an A) didn't make him blink. The most I got was a mandatory "keep up the good work" and that was it.  
  


  
So one day while feeling especially angry at the hand fate had dealt me, I fortuitously set one of my test tubes on fire with a miscalculated stream of conflagration from my lighter. And apparently concentrated fire mixed with large amounts of flammable liquids equaled minor explosion.  
  


  
It was the first time my father had had an actual conversation with me, one where he spoke about keeping up appearances and not drawing attention to him. Okay... so the content of our exchange was admittedly crap, but at least I got to verbally engage with my father for more than five minutes.  
  


  
As a result of my self proclaimed victory I continued the pattern, breaking things and lighting up objects, all the while disguising my actions as pranks… forever more… Amen.  
  


  
I looked around my room again. Inhaling deeply, I took a measured look at all the shapes and patterns of the objects that made up my space. Today, I knew, was going to be interesting and at the same time extremely fulfilling. I could already imagine the look of outrage on my fathers face.  
  


  
Today was going to be a good day.  
  
****************************************************************  
  


**Chloe**

  
I felt betrayed.   
  


  
Firstly betrayed by my dad, and secondly betrayed by my own stupidity.  
  


  
How could I not have recognized it before?; all the signs that pointed to the same logical conclusion.  
  


  
I had not too long ago considered myself a top notch reporter; someone with the eyes of a hawk and the instinct of a devoted parent. But now I wasn't sure.  
  


  
What good could I ever be to the New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, or even the Washington Post if I couldn't manage what was right in my own home?  
  


  
'Wow' I thought.  
  


  
If H-E-L-P was the residence of a hotline I could call, there was no doubt in my mind that I'd be breaking every long distance rule to contact the home base.  
  


  
But no.  
  


  
There was no one to talk to about this; no one except myself or my diary, which I hadn't written to since I was twelve years old.  
  


  
I sighed and got up from my desk. Going through my "outdated" pile of things, I cursed and flung my way through a mountain of possession's I was sure at one time or another I'd never have use for again.  
  


  
_Ironically_, the very second I felt ready to give up my search, was the precise moment I found what I was looking for. I gave the small object the once over and construed it to be the same as it was from the time when I last saw it; perhaps it was a little dustier and a little moldier, but it was still that annoying shade of pink and still- I realized- my most trusted confidant.  
  
When I opened my journal- as I'd begun to call it at age eleven when diary sounded too babyish- I saw my first entry. I had been eight years old and excited that I finally had something to talk to, even though it could not answer me back.  
  
  


_Dear diary_: _My daddy gave you to me today for no reason. Just cause he loves me he says. He still thinks I like pink but I don't. and even tho you are pink I like you anyways. Bye for now- Chloe.  
  
  
_

Tears welled up unexpectedly and settled in the corner of my eyes.  
  


  
I flipped through more pages and saw an entry from when I was ten years old writing about Lionel Luthor's son, Clark Luthor, and how I'd only seen him from a distance, but how I could _still tell he was really fine.  
  
_

  
I closed the book and felt a sliver of bitterness creep into the smile I was wearing.  
  


  
I remembered that day clearly. It was the first time my dad had taken me to one of his many functions that were associated with his work. Looking back now, it made a perfect amount of sense why everyone was dressed in suits that outweighed their paychecks; why I could feel, what I now recognized as tension in the air; and why I was never taken back to another one of those "functions", hosted and sponsored in part by one Luthor Corporations.  
  


  
But I _hadn't_ written any of those things down; I hadn't even given them a second thought. All I could think about that day was how Clark Luthor hadn't even spared me a glance, and how completely devastated I was.  
  


  
Good old pre-teen angst.  
  


  
What I wouldn't have given for some of that right now. Even regular teen angst would have seemed like bliss compared to what was happening to me now. I was going through living Hell.  
  


  
Yeah... it sounded dramatic, but what else could one call it when he or she finds out that their life is a certifiable sham. That most of everyone they knew- including that person's dad- had been lying to them since childhood. That their _father_- for God knows how long- worked for the mob.  
  


**An**** part 2**: Reviews arte greatly appreciated and muchly adored!


	3. Prova dei Limiti

**Author**: J.A.K  
  
**Rating**: R- for real life feelings and real life situations that aren't always PG-13  
  
**Summary**: Clark is born a Luthor; but the surprise doesn't end there. It also turns out that his father is _the most notorious mobster in the nation. Fighting desperately for a forbidden love, he must also fight against who he is; as he _is_ the son of a godfather.  
  
**Disclaimers**: I don't intend to make a profit off of this story; I only intend to entertain those of like mind.  
  
**Author's Note**: I didn't want to say in my prologue what ship this story was going to be. I'll tell you now, though, that it _is_ a Clark/Chloe ship (what else could it really be) and that is _mainly_ b/c I think it's most logical that Clark and Chloe end up together. It's a C&Cfic _partly_ b/c I think Lana should be with no one else except Lex.   
  
_

**An**** part 2: Oh yeah... I ask that you bare with me as I am basically re- writing Clark's entire history.   
  
**

Enough of my ramblings.on with the story. Enjoy!

**^Chapter Two^**  
  
  


**Clark******

I took a long drag off of my cigarette, flicking the simmering ashes to the side with unpracticed grace. There was no one around to tell me to quote-unquote 'stop polluting their lungs', so I kept smoking until I met the entrance of my school. I inhaled one last time and threw the remaining butt away. Late as usual I thought, walking as hurriedly as my relaxed legs would take me.  
  


  
The halls of Saint Francis were long and imposing, but were also given reluctant respect by the students, who knew that their secrets were always heard yet- without fail- never repeated. The lockers that lined the marble walls were color sorted by grade. Red for freshmen, dark blue for sophomores, orange for juniors, and grey for seniors. There was no time for me to stop by my own locker; there was only time for me to make a fashionably late entrance to my AP Calculus class.  
  


  
My eyes focused on the odd numbered rooms as I passed them by.   
  


  
I stopped and sighed, reluctantly facing the corner that marked the path of where my math class was currently located.   
  


  
Before making my way to the door, I unexpectedly thought about the corporation my father insisted I keep shares in. Thinking more on it, I also briefly reflected on how demanding their slogan was, as it now applied to me.   
  


  
Apparently Nike never had Mr. H for a teacher.  
  


  
My hand hesitated slightly over the knob of the door, but I urged myself to go ahead and follow the saying: to simply "_just do it".   
  
_

  
I hesitated again.  
  


  
Now it wasn't that I was _scared_ of Mr. Horowitz exactly.   
  


  
To be honest, it was really my self I was scared for; scared about the inevitable shit loads of trouble I was _bound_ to get myself into by being forced into cursing out yet anther teacher.  
  


  
I turned the handle and pushed. As soon as my body stood inside the entrance of the room, rays of sunlight glared menacingly into my face. A gradual and long-lasting silence fell over the class. I noticed a couple of girls blush when I unseeingly made eye contact with them, and the follow of quiet admiration by a few of the guys who wished they could walk in thirty minutes late to a class run by one of the nastiest teacher's in the school.  
  


  
"Nice of you to finally join us, Mr.Luthor." A sarcastic smile was followed by his equally sarcastic comment.  
  


  
I tried hard, but failed miserably to take the remark in stride.  
  


  
"The pleasure is all mine." I smiled back, hoping my expression matched my voice.  
  


  
Irritation filtered through the mask Horowitz wore, and I took note of the twitch that started to rise on and off above his left eye.  
  


  
"Are you fully- or better yet- even _remotely_ aware that this is an AP class that you are taking?"  
  


  
I tilted my head slightly and glanced heavenward, trying to appear as if I was really contemplating the question that was given to him. I shook my head faintly and shrugged my shoulders with an untaught polish.  
  


  
"Yea. I guess I do know that this is an AP class."  
  


  
I had noticed that my peers had been waiting with bated breath for my reply, and I could almost hear the internal groans that were resonating in their minds. All traces of my teacher's laughter were gone. In its stead was full blown and barely checked anger.  
  


  
"You think this is all fun and games, don't you Luthor?" I opened my mouth to respond, but wasn't given even the slimmest chance to reply.   
  


  
My teacher raged on.  
  


  
"This isn't the first, or the second, or even the _third time that you've walked into my class late. I can't even keep track now because it's been _so_ __many damn times." He rose his hand and pointed an accusing finger. "If you believe somewhere in your mind that _this_ is acceptable behavior, then think again." His eyebrows rose haughtily. "Your father may run the mob, but he doesn't run this classroom. If you have a problem with what I just said well I don't give a shit. And if your father has a problem with what I just said then tell him Mark Horowitz says to be a real man and give his son an example that he can aspire to follow."  
  
_

  
There was an extremely long and pregnant pause. None of the students dared breathe for fear of breaking the still and silent tension that had enveloped the room.  
  


  
_I_, at the moment wasn't even aware of the presumably twenty pairs of eyes that were trained on me. _I was way too busy being shocked.   
  
_

  
This wasn't _normal_ shocked.   
  


  
This was a type of shock that pervaded the entire being of my body, but was then almost immediately overcome by seemingly unending waves of fury.  
  


  
My teeth clenched. "Who the _hell_ do you think you are?"  
  


  
Horowitz took a step forward, standing directly parallel to his desk and the chalkboard. "I don't _think_ I am anyone. I _know_ that I am your teacher. A teacher who has the backbone to call you on the way you act."  
  


  
I felt my hands automatically ball into fists.  
  


  
"Talk about me fine; but don't _ever_, and I mean _ever,_ bring up my father in a conversation that's supposed to be about _this Luthor." The sun was still glaring, and the students were still staring, but neither of us was conscious of that fact.  
  
_

  
"If your father is a pertinent part of my verbal exchange with you, then I _will_ continue to bring him into any conversation that the two of us should ever have."  
  


  
For a moment, I seriously considered the limited options which were presented to me as I thought of ways I should respond to the situation; but before I could allow myself to do something I would truly regret, I let out a quiet but meaningful "Fuck you" and walked out of the classroom.  
  
  
  


**An**** part 3: Reviews are greatly appreciated and muchly adored….or is it the other way around?**

**An**** part 4: Reviews are _muchly_ appreciated and _greatly adored!_**


	4. Scoperte

**Author**: J.A.K  
  
**Rating**: R- for real life feelings and real life situations that aren't always PG-13  
  
**Summary**: Clark is born a Luthor; but the surprise doesn't end there. It also turns out that his father is _the_ most notorious mobster in the nation. Fighting desperately for a forbidden love, he must also fight against who he is; as he _is_ the son of a godfather.  
  
**Disclaimers**: I don't intend to make a profit off of this story; I only intend to entertain those of like mind.  
  
**Author's Note**: I didn't want to say in my prologue what ship this story was going to be. I'll tell you now, though, that it _is_ a Clark/Chloe ship (what else could it really be). The new season along with college, is killing my update schedule. I should be writing a paper right now, but instead I'm uploading a new chapter. This is actually my favorite story going right now 'cause I get to write a Clark as a good guy/bad boy.

**An**** part 2**: Oh yeah... I ask that you bare with me as I am basically re- writing Clark's entire history.   
  


**An**** part 3: Thanks to everyone who reviewed.**

Enough of my ramblings.on with the story. Enjoy!

****

**Chloe**

It was cold and bleak during this time of year in New York. The only color that could be seen for miles around was the varying shades of red and gold that were halfheartedly attached to the Maple Leaf trees. The grounds of Saint Francis academy were filled to the brim with an assortment of just such trees. Whoever made the financial decisions for the school seemed to think that the more foliage there was the more impressive and moneyed the school would appear to prospective students and their rich parents.

Until recently, I never knew that I fell under the esteemed category of rich; but apparently according to the staff, I was wealthy enough to be invited to take a tour of the well established academy.

I sighed looking around and feeling tired with the whole situation. I didn't _need_ to have a personal escort, whom I quickly brushed off, opting instead to roam around the grounds by myself. I didn't _need_ to be wined and dined and swept off my feet as if this were a first date. This was a school for crying out loud- an institution for learning. A simple 'would you like to go here Chloe' was more than enough for me.

I looked down the halls of Saint Francis, dimly appreciating how imposing yet oddly solicitous the lengthy corridors were. I shrugged, thinking to myself that I didn't really care where I went, so long as I was out of the house and away from my dad.

As I began to get more familiar with my surroundings and comfortable with the air that floated about me, I almost didn't see a fast approaching figure that appeared to be in a discontented mood. He was very tall and broad shouldered with dark hair. As he passed by me—nearly taking off my shoulder in the process— I noticed that he wasn't smartly dressed in standard uniform like the other students, but was donning a pair of loose fitting faded jeans and a dark blue sweater with a crisp white collared shirt poking out from the lapels of the heavier of the two materials.

When I let out a surprised gasp he paused in mid step, sighed, then turned around.

He let out a brusque and strained sounding "sorry" then continued on his way.

Feeling particularly irritated by his attitude, I let out what I considered to be a pretty witty reply.

"The _least_ you could do is pick _up_ my arm, which by the way, didn't appreciate being knocked to the floor like that." Sarcasm oozed from the pores of every vowel and consonant that left my mouth.

His eyes widened slightly in a way that suggested that he wasn't use to being spoken to like that. They returned to what was presumably normal size as he took a step forward. 

He put a hand to his ear. 

"Excuse me, did you say something?" His face was unusually bland for a person straining to hear. 

I opened my mouth and began speaking, but was cut off by a crisp "I didn't think so."

For the second time since I'd met him, his back faced me as he turned around, heading off quickly to wherever it was he was going.

From the moment I'd seen him approaching in this direction, I _knew_ there was something very familiar about his features; but it wasn't until he faced me for the second time that I figured out how and where I knew him from.

"Oh my _God_…

…it's Clark Luthor."

************************************

**Clark******

From the moment I started approaching the vicinity of the exit, I knew there was something familiar about the girl who stood there. Her wit was even more refreshing than her outlandish clothes, but today wasn't a day for engaging in conversations with anyone. There was only one objective on my mind, and that was getting as far away from this unfit madhouse they tried to pass off as school as I could.

I knew it was years of Luthor training that made the words roll off my tongue as easily as they did, but even I was shocked at the rudeness of it all.

I shrugged inwardly thinking of yet another of the many sayings my father had told me when I was younger. This one was actually in high standings as truest of all, because nice guys always _did finish last._

With that in mind, I always tried to be as cutting as I could to anyone who so much as looked at me in a cross way. To say it didn't feel just the slightest bit exhilarating when guys older than me quickly averted their eyes so as not to come at me the wrong way, would be a lie. It didn't feel as good when I gave the same treatment to the female gender, but those encounters happened rarely because I was often trying to get in bed with most of the girls _and_ women I came into contact with.

Right now, it just so happened that I'd just come from a rather frustrating face-off of sorts, and I really wasn't in the mood to indulge _anyone_, even if they were pretty and blond.

So disregarding the notion that I knew her from some time in the past, I let loose my silver tongue on her unsuspecting form.

Shrugging internally after I said my piece, I turned my back on her again, prepared to go riding in my newest S class series Mercedes. The rush of doing 95 in a 65 mile per hour zone combined with the satisfying feel of the wind on my face was incentive enough to put an extra spring in my step.

I was almost in the home stretch; almost close to my passage to freedom which currently had a subdued looking 'exit' sign glowing directly above it. That _was_ until the stranger whom apparently wasn't a stranger screeched out my name in shocked tones.

Stopping straight in my tracks, I swung my body around, remembering dimly not to use my enhanced powers of speed.

I could feel my eyes widen ever so slightly as I stared at her bewildered face.

Slowly placing my hands in my pockets and looking at her with what I hoped appeared like only faint interest, I spoke to her.

"Now that you've joined the masses in accurately confirming the fact that- yes- I _am_ _indeed Clark Luthor," I swept her body slowly with my eyes, understanding wholeheartedly why she squirmed from discomfort beneath my gaze, "Who are you?"_

She didn't seem fazed by my retort. In fact, that just appeared to fuel the words that were already teetering on the insides of her mouth.

A loud snort came from her nose as she looked heavenward. Seconds later she cast her sight downwards to meet mine, all the while glaring at me as she folded her arms tightly.

"Of course you don't remember me; you've _only seen me a hundred times at your father's meetings."_

Confusion then recognition coursed through my veins. Was this really pretty blond girl with the pink dress? Or at least that was the name I'd given her after noticing her petite form on more than one occasion. 

Remembering who I was, I instantly tightened my loose jaw, and proceeded to treat her as I had been taught to treat anyone who had the upper hand.

I folded my own arms stepping closer to her flagrantly angered pose.

"I saw you a few times, but I obviously wasn't _too compelled to find out your name."_

I felt the corners of my lips turn up ever so slightly. I knew she would be incited enough to tell me her name without my asking.

"_Why_ _you…my name is Chloe Sullivan." She put her hands on her hips, which I couldn't help but notice had a very appealing shape to them. "And if it wasn't for the fact that you are who you are, then I wouldn't be too compelled to know your name either."_

With that, she crossed the remaining distance that separated us, and rose her hand in what could only bean an attempt to slap me.

Shocked and amazed that anyone would somehow get it in their mind to raise their hand at me, I didn't even pretend not to use my super speed.

Catching her hand I stared menacingly down at her.

"What in God's good name do you think you're doing?"

She seemed surprised that I invoked the name God, and quickly glanced around my neck which was plainly adorned with a small silver cross.

Yea I was religious. Sometimes only when it was convenient to me, but…who cared? Everyone had their sins.

I focused, once again, at the situation at hand. When no response was forthcoming, I gripped her wrist a bit harder.

"_Well_?"

Again I would be lying if I said I wasn't surprised when some of the fire that previously scorched her green irises lessened from her eyes, as she quickly looked down at her feet.

This time, she spoke so softly, that if it wasn't for my finer hearing abilities, I was sure that I would have missed what she said.

Hearing the words as I did still didn't diminish the meaning that was emitted from the depths of each utterance.

How could she ask me 'why _exactly I didn't tell her what _those_ meetings were about'?_

If she didn't know what _those _meetings were about, then she didn't know….

I stared at her for a few moments disbelieving what my mind was trying to tell me. 

Is _that_ why the Sullivans suddenly vanished? To runaway from a truth that was virtually inescapable. If that was the case, then why would Gabe Sullivan even let his daughter come to the school that I was attending?

Before the tiniest vestige of sympathy had a chance to be felt for the person that was directly in front of me, a loud but clear "Clark, please do kindly unhand Ms. Sullivan," came ringing down the hall.

There, standing like the impossibility that he was, was my father, staring at Chloe with an all too familiar calculating gaze.

Instantly dropping my hand, I gaped in open shock. Did we step into the twilight zone? Was this still saint Francis Academy? Was my father _really_ standing there?

Lionel stepped closer to the confines of our proximity. 

Clasping his hands loosely in front of him, he retained the classic Luthor pose.

"Now that we've finally found each other Miss Sullivan, would you be so willing as to relay to me where your dear dad is."

I knew then that both Chloe and her father were in shit loads of trouble.


End file.
